One for the Money (two for the show)
by The Readers Muse
Summary: She balanced on her own for a handful of beats before she was falling again, a slumping dead weight as she melted into the closest set of arms – soft and sweet-smelling as the curve of a breast hushed across the small of her back.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** I was inspired to write this after I got a delightful little anon prompt on tumblr that went as follows_: "I have a sudden desire to read a fic pairing Tara and Beth. Know what I mean? Eh? Eh? Do you think you could work your magic?" _– This is my attempt to do that prompt justice!

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in after the season four finale, during some point in the distant future when Beth has been reunited with the rest of the group and a handful of years have passed. The main pairing is Tara/Beth – minor pairing is Carol/Daryl. *Contains: adult language, references to PTSD and possible sexual/physical abuse/assault (regarding Beth's ordeal after getting 'kidnapped' in late season four), adult content, mild sexual content, fem-slash, religious references and season four spoilers.

**One for the Money (two for the show)**

_**Chapter One**_

She'd like to say that things had changed after Terminus, after she'd gotten free from the men who'd taken her and met the others on the road. But she'd be lying if she tried to sugar coat it.

They'd survived. They'd made it. But she had a feeling Daddy wouldn't have agreed with much of it – with what they'd had to do to keep each other alive. It kept her up sometimes, when everyone else had gone to bed – praying that wherever he was, he'd forgive her, forgive _all _of them for the things they'd done.

She didn't like to think about it. About the messed up legacy they were creating. But the others didn't want to hear it. They were too far gone for that, even Maggie seemed different somehow, harder. So she'd said nothing, figuring that the nightmares and the guilt were just the Lord's way of getting even.

_Daddy would have probably called it penance._

The timing had been one in a million, but when Rick and the others busted out of the compound, she'd popped out of the brush about twenty yards away. She'd been exhausted when she'd stumbled out of the ditch and onto the road. Filthy, blood-splattered and only half-dressed, with the bottom half of her shirt torn clear off. They were mementos of the moment where she'd managed to break free, cutting through her bonds with the little boot knife her kidnappers had missed before making a run for it.

_She hadn't stopped running. Not when her lungs started to burn. Not when she ducked around the outstretched arms of a walker. Not even when she nearly fell, tripping over a tree root. She knew what would happen if she stopped. They'd catch her. They'd catch her and-_

She'd stood, shocked in the middle of the road as a double-cab truck, all over-sized tires and rusty rims, bore down on her. She blinked, a deer in the headlights as a window rolled down, the glint of a gun barrel flashing in the high Georgian glare. She remembered the sudden flush of panic when she realized what they must have thought – what she must have _looked _like.

Her hair had been in her face, falling over her eyes in frizzy, blood-matted curls that stuck to her chin and cheeks. She whipped around, sore muscles screaming. Broken out of her daze as whoever was driving panicked, burning rubber as they rounded the corner, barely ahead of the main pack as a horde of walkers poured out of Terminus's mangled iron gates.

The train yard, or Terminus, as Rick had called it, looked like a dug up ant hill. Half the compound was on fire, a squirming mess of walkers and fleeing survivors too busy trying to outrun the worst of the herd to pay any attention to the truck and SUV making tracks down the deserted back country road.

They didn't recognize her until it was almost too late.

As it was, she swore she felt the air when Michonne unsheathed her katana, the truck practically on top of her before someone – Maggie maybe - let go of a shrill cry. The scream of metal grinding against metal had been deafening as Rick stamped down on the brakes, nearly clipping her as the wheels locked and someone loomed, grabbing her by the armpits and wrenching her up – vicious and hurried as she strangled a startled cry.

The taste of copper flooded her mouth. _Red. There was too much red._

There had been no time to stop. No time for gentleness as sun-warmed metal seared across her exposed belly. There was a flash of ginger hair and a wash of unfamiliar sweat as her knees slammed against the wheel well. The man – Abraham – tried to steady her, his wide-palmed hands tightening around her hips, trying to keep her grounded as the truck lurched and spun.

Her throat tightened. The men who'd taken her, who'd stolen her while Daryl tried to buy them time, had told her they'd just been trying to help. That they thought Daryl was trying to hurt her, keeping her weak and wounded so she wouldn't leave. They'd told her they'd take care of her. But their smiles had been unkind, more teeth than anything as they'd leered at her through the rear-view mirror.

They'd promised.

_They'd lied._

She wrenched herself away when the weight of Abraham's hands became too much – strangling. She didn't realize she was panicking until she found herself beating his arms away, wild and squalling as her bloody toes slipped across the divots, throat burning as a scream tore from her throat, echoing into the confusion as Abraham dropped her like a sack of hot coals.

She balanced on her own for a handful of beats before she was falling again, a slumping dead weight as she melted into the closest set of arms – soft and sweet-smelling as the curve of a breast hushed across the small of her back.

But more than anything, she remembered pressing her face into the curve of the woman's shoulder, so grateful, so shaken that she hadn't even thought twice. It didn't matter that she didn't know her. It didn't matter that the woman's arms were wrapped around her loosely, uncertain, making an awkward noise of distress as Maggie fell on them both. It didn't matter that the others were closing in – suffocatingly close as every jerk of the wheel and muffled curse made her stomach churn.

All that mattered was that she was home – _safe_.

She felt guilty about the flinch when Maggie tried to pull her close, unconsciously gripping the dark-haired woman all the tighter as she forced herself to breathe, blinking back bloody tears until the woman –_ Tara_ – said something. It was only a quiet rumble of sound, but it caused Maggie to pull back immediately, a horrified sort of understanding blossoming in the back of her eyes as the roar of the engine echoed - tinny and distant in her ears.

She'd taken one look at Maggie's expression before she had to turn away, hiding her face in the curve of the woman's shoulder, gritting her teeth as bright spots danced across her vision. Her breath started coming in shallow, off-center pants. Distantly she was aware of her skin prickling, fever-hot as someone, a man she didn't recognize, closed the gap. There was a handful of awkward beats before the back of a hand – deliciously cool and inviting - pressed against her burning forehead. She tried to follow it but her head was too heavy.

The woman smelled like gun oil and regret.

It was the last thing she knew before darkness finally took her.

* * *

She knew she thought about that day more than she probably should. There'd been something about Tara that she'd immediately liked. There was an openness to her, an eagerness that'd appealed to the youthful side of her, something she figured she'd long since left behind.

It'd been refreshing.

And Tara had never once questioned her about it.

Maggie tried her best. But no one really knew what to say. What to do. They'd been just as lost as her. Daddy would have known, he would have been able to fix it – fix _her_. She was sure of it. But he was gone. The lord had taken him home. He was with Mom now, Shawn, Patricia, Otis, Jimmy - _everyone_. Eventually she'd had to make her peace with that. With getting left behind.

She'd made her choice after all.

She'd thrown herself into the first thing that'd made sense, Judith. It was blissfully familiar, soothing even when she considered that sometimes, all she had to do was close her eyes and she could imagine they were back in the prison. That Daddy and Rick were outside, fiddling around with the crops and Zach was-

She shook her head.

She didn't want to think about that.

* * *

It took a few weeks before the others stopped treating her with kid gloves. And honestly, she wasn't sure if she was relieved or disappointed. It felt like her own words were coming back to haunt her. _We don't get to be upset. _

She felt muted. Washed out and overlooked.

_Just another dead girl._

She wondered sometimes, when things got quiet - when they weren't running, fighting, scavenging and going hungry - if she'd remember how to smile again. She put on a mask for the other's sake – so Maggie wouldn't worry – but inside she knew she was breaking.

In the end, it was Tara who reminded her.

* * *

"_Urgh_, budge over," Tara ordered, flopping beside her with an undignified snort a few evenings later.

"I have never seen two people so _disgustingly _perfect for each other, yet so obviously_ not_ boning," she remarked, pinching a bit of dirt between her thumb and forefinger before tossing it into the coals. Gesturing across the fire to where Carol and Daryl were sitting shoulder to shoulder, watching Judith play with one of her dolls.

Startled, she looked up from her sewing – halfway through mending a tear in one of Glenn's jeans. She blinked at the sudden shift, wondering if she'd lost track of time again as the woman smiled at her expectantly. She followed the crux of her finger with polite curiosity, watching the couple in question from under the veil of her lashes.

_Oh._

Her tongue curled in her mouth, parched yet anticipatory. She hadn't spoken unbidden in days, yet now in spite of herself, her heart quickened, all but surging with the need to tell the woman about the farm and the thousand stolen glances that had spanned out between.

She wanted to tell her everything, the nighttime whisperings between her and Maggie at the prison, playfully wondering when one of them was going to make a move. Making bets with chores – desperately stifling giggles – nudging each other whenever they happened on the two of them alone, watching with bated breath as they talked, quietly bumping shoulders or just drinking in the silence, wordlessly urging them to _just kiss already!_

"Seriously, though. Tell me why they're _not _a thing? This is literally painful to watch," Tara groaned.

Judith squealed, trying to squash her doll into one of the plastic cups they'd found on their last run. She winced as the sound carried. The open clearing they'd decided to call home for the next few days threw the echoes back as Carol hummed, hushing her gently. The smile Daryl leveled at them both, the one neither of them could see, was nothing short of the sunrise.

It was only when Tara started talking that she tore her eyes away.

"Either way, he better get a move on or_ I_ just might. She's not exactly my type, you understand. I am _all _about the sassy brunettes with deep-seeded attitude problems, but with a woman like _that_ you gotta strike while the iron is hot; you know what I'm sayin'?"

It took her a few minutes to figure out what she'd said and even longer to realize what she meant by it. But by that point the woman was already fast asleep, passed clean out beside her on Maggie's bed roll and didn't see her blush.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be a few more chapters, so stay tuned!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** I was inspired to this write after I got a delightful little anon prompt in my tumblr inbox that went as follows_: "I have a sudden desire to read a fic pairing Tara and Beth. Know what I mean? Eh? Eh? Do you think you could work your magic?" _– This is my attempt to do that prompt justice!

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in after the season four finale, during some point in the distant future when Beth has been reunited with the rest of the group and a handful of years have passed. *Contains: adult language, references to PTSD, depression, possible sexual/physical abuse/assault (regarding Beth's ordeal after getting 'kidnapped' in late season four), adult content, mild sexual content, fem-slash, religious references and some vague season four spoilers.

**One for the Money (two for the show)**

_**Chapter Two**_

As weird as it sounded, that was what they bonded over. It started off simply enough, more a game than anything. It was a shared interest, a way to pass the time when night fell, something to keep your mind from dwelling on how much the world had changed.

She'd always loved games.

And like any contest, any challenge she'd taken up in the past, she took their impromptu mission seriously. Every look, every glance and pause suddenly seemed important, something to tally and keep track of. Something to talk about – all hushed whispers and mingling breaths - around the fire come nightfall.

It felt so stupidly good to do something for herself again that she couldn't help but go a bit overboard. And this time, she had to admit that the lack of moonshine burnin' its way down her throat only seemed like that much more of a bonus.

At first it reminded her of better times. Of hours spent after school with her friends, gabbing about that new cute guy or the theatre's latest blockbuster. It reminded her of the way things used to be, the _good_ parts. Later it didn't remind her of anything at all. She had no way to measure it, no previous experience to describe how she felt when Tara looked up, grinning, all huge, wide and honest when she saw _that _look on her face.

The one that said _'oh boy, have I got something to tell you'_ or _'you'll never believe what almost just happened.'_

It should have been like anything else, any other friendship, only it wasn't and she _cultivated_ it. She babied the feeling as it warmed, idle yet insistent just underneath her skin. It was hers, hers to protect, to nurture and keep safe as the days slipped past, each one inexplicably easier to bear than the last.

It wasn't much but she took it for what it was, a blessing. A way out of the prison she'd inadvertently created when all she'd wanted was a shelter. Either way, it gave her an opportunity she hadn't realized she'd been searching for, a chance to get to know Tara better.

* * *

It was a few weeks after the night around the fire that Maggie finally sat her down. She wasn't caught off guard. She'd been watching the question brew in the back of her eyes for days. Only this time she didn't put her out of her misery. A few months ago she might have. But this time she let her stew, knowing that eventually her sister would come to her.

"You've been spending a lot of time with Tara," Maggie observed, blunt and only slightly accusatory as she sharpened her knife on the flat edge of a rock.

She stayed quiet, listening to the _rasp-rasp-rasp-click_ as she changed Judith's diaper, ticking her fat little belly until the tot giggled, stuffing her fingers in her mouth as she burbled nonsense.

"Beth?"

They were going to have to think about potty-training her soon. She knew it was a little early, but diapers were getting harder and harder to find these days. More and more the childcare sections of the stores and strip malls they tried to scavenge were cleared out, empty to the last pacifier. It seemed as though anyone who'd made it this far was having the same problems they were. Try as they might, life always found a way.

"We don't know her very well," Maggie cautioned, picking at a piece of lint on her sleeve before going back to her sharpening with a determined air – drawing it out.

The silence stretched. She closed her eyes as the clouds shifted and a ray of sunshine streamed through the forest canopy. She felt the heat on her face, soaking it in as her skin prickled with gooseflesh. She'd always loved the sun.

"She's one of us," she replied firmly, finding her tongue just as Sasha and Bob stumbled out of the trees on the other side of the clearing, breathing hard, their clothes rumpled, laughing. They didn't seem to notice they were there but headed deeper into the brush all the same. Sasha squealed, pretending to struggle when Bob snapped her up in a fireman's carry, marching smartly through the green and out of sight as Sasha shrieked indignantly.

In the end, that was all they said about it.

Maggie didn't mention it again.

* * *

She figured out pretty quickly that Tara was a mess of contradictions. Her personality was just about as loud as she was, but it was clear to anyone who dared look that she was making liberal use of the mute button. She was keeping herself under a sensor, like there was some invisible quota of personality she could express on any given day and clammed up when she'd reached it.

She looked like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like she'd never considered she'd make it this far and didn't know what to do with herself now that she had.

She could drink Abraham and Daryl under the table but hated the way her hair looked, slicked back by the rain. She never met Rick's eyes, but could laugh and joke with Glenn, Eugene and Rosita like she'd known them for _years_ rather than weeks.

She was crude, sincere, unapologetic, loyal, sarcastic, kind, brash, and _lord _if it wasn't giving her a headache trying to keep track!

She was quite possibly the most confusing, frustrating and completely unavoidable person she'd ever met. And the fact that she didn't mean that in a bad way confused her more than she cared to admit.

* * *

She didn't bother trying to keep track of the days anymore. Her journal was a jumble of conflicting weeks and months. She relied on Eugene for that now, to remind her if it was a Monday or a Friday. As if it even mattered in the first place. Daddy always said it did. That you had to remember where you'd come from to make sense of your future. But lately, well, she wasn't so sure.

Maggie tried to talk to her sometimes. Often she didn't realize it until her sister was in mid-conversation and she came back to herself only to get the cliff-notes, snippets that ended with things like-

"So hate me if you need to, but _please_ don't shut me out."

"Bethie, this isn't what Daddy would want. Please talk to me."

"-when we lost the prison I thought- I _knew_ you were dead. That was how I rationalized it. I let you go. I put you to rest. I told myself it was okay, okay because you were with Dad, that you weren't alone. I couldn't handle the thought of you being out here alone. That was how I dealt with it. I killed you. And you have no idea how much that tears me up inside."

"When you stumbled out of the brush I thought- …_Beth, _look at me!"

She was the first to admit that she had a lot to work through. That she was wounded - _damaged_. But every time her sister tried, all she could think about was that it sounded a whole lot like Maggie was trying to make _herself_ feel better, not the other way around.

By the time she was ready to start listening, Maggie wasn't interested in talking anymore.

She wasn't sure _what_ to feel after that.

* * *

Tara was good at keeping her occupied.

It was always something, a constant stream of the weird and unexpected, like "hey, you busy? Good. Let's play backgammon," or "yo, how do you get blood out of satin? Like pale yellow satin? Ask no questions. Just take pity and tell me," or even, shockingly enough, "so, what are your thoughts on banana flavored condoms?"

She didn't always let her hide behind Judith either. She wanted to hate her for that, especially in the beginning. But she could never quite bring herself to manage it.

They still talked about Carol and Daryl. About soul mates and 'certain' people that couldn't see their nose despite their face, but gradually they started talking about other things. One day, while out on a supply run with Abraham and Rosita, she told her about the farm, about the peach trees and the smell of Patricia's cooking wafting all the way down to the eastern most pasture. And in return, Tara regaled her with stories from her time in the Police Academy, earning them the stink eye more than once when their giggles threatened to rise above a whisper.

It only seemed to snowball from there.

* * *

Daddy often said that sometimes all two people needed was a push - _a moment_ and nature would take care of the rest. And it must've because she was coming back from the river, a plastic tub of wet clothes balanced in her arms when she caught sight of Daryl and Carol pressed up against a tree – making out like teenagers on the outskirts of camp.

She froze, forgetting for a moment that the weight of the tub was digging into her palms, or that a bead of sweat was itching its way between her shoulder blades, fair skin burning under the glare of the summer sun. And quite frankly, the sight alone was worth every minute of it.

There was something in the way they moved that fascinated her, a slow roll of hips, awkward but passionate that told her this was as new to them as it was to her. Her heart was beating embarrassingly, no- _damningly_ loud between her ears when Daryl's hands settled on Carol's hips. The act itself was tentative but the feelings underneath were another story entirely. His fingers flexed across the curve of the woman's hip, practically screaming with an uneven barrage _want-need-mine-can't _that it took her off guard.

Her teeth worried her bottom lip. _How could he stand it? The air was practically singing with it and here he was, keeping himself on a short leash. She knew what he wanted, what he wanted to do, and yet he held back, refusing to-_

She wasn't sure what made her think it, but the longer she watched, the more she knew it'd been_ Carol_ who'd made the first move. It wasn't just the way the woman had him pressed up against the tree or the way her hands were resting on his face, tipping his chin so she could mouth her way down the curve of his jaw. It was everything else. The resigned stiffness that still held sway in the muscles of his forearms. The way he was holding her, firm but delicate – calloused palms brushing across her skin almost reverently – like she was something unearthly and infinitely precious.

She nearly dropped the washing when Daryl moaned, a low throaty sound that caused the hair on the back of her neck to prickle. There was heat building in her belly, a tangled knot of pleasure and embarrassment when she realized she was just _standing_ there, gawking like a teenager who'd snuck into an R-rated movie at precisely the right moment.

So, naturally, she did the only thing that made sense at the time.

_She fled._

* * *

She hadn't been able to contain her glee. She shoved the tub into the first set of empty arms – Bob's - and hurried back to camp. She skidded to a stop beside Tara's tent, squirming through the open flaps and practically right into the woman's lap in her haste. Their hushed whispers and girlish confidences lasted just about as long as Carol's poker-face when the two of them finally sauntered back into camp about half an hour later.

Daryl looked sloe-eyed and slightly dazed as he followed in her wake.

The look of utter and complete glee in Tara's eyes had been like nothing she'd ever seen. It was raw, honest - _clean_ and so utterly beautiful in every way that she barely knew how to quantify it. She'd felt lucky – blessed just to see it. It sounded stupid to say it aloud, but she'd smiled for what felt like the first time in _years._

After that a whole bunch of things seemed to happen at once. Both her and Tara's heads popped through the tent flaps as they walked past. Stifling laughter as they took in the sight, trying to find any evidence of what had transpired, anything to fuel the reel of lurid images currently streaming through her mind's eye as Tara elbowed her in the kidney.

"_Shhh!_ Don't spoil it," the woman hissed, dark hair curling, fuzzing with sleep and split ends. The sight alone was so tempting she had to stop herself from reaching over and smoothing them, wondering what it would feel like to sink her tips into that thick dark hair and-

Michonne looked up, sharpening stone stuttering to a halt as a look, indescribable and brief flittered across her face. If she'd had the energy to focus on anything more than how Daryl was rubbing the back of his neck, all but _bleeding_ awkward as Carol passed him a cup of water, she might have paused on it.

But, before she could make a decision either way, the thoughtful look rippled, making way for a sly, lazy sort of smile that went all the way to the woman's eyes. Off to her right, Carl looked up from his book – the same one he'd been nursing for the last two days. The same one she didn't have the heart to tell him was only the first in a series of four that would never have a conclusion.

There was a moment of absolute silence – delicious and anticipatory as Carol stretched in place, rolling her neck from side to side, fair skin a mess of stubble-burn and clumsy hickies as she leaned down to refill her canteen. Daryl just grunted, knuckling his forehead when he realized everyone was staring.

The moment broke unexpectedly when Glenn dropped his armful of kindling.

She choked on a giggle, the sound loud and understated as Rosita shuffled out of range, fixing Glenn with a glare as he sagged into the closest chair, throwing his hands up - fists closed like a victory pump as he yelled something that sounded suspiciously like: "_Fucking finally!"_

The entire camp devolved into laughter and well-meant ribbing.

Carol just looked remarkably self-satisfied. Like the proverbial cat who'd caught the canary and then some. Daryl hung back, half behind Carol - ducking his head, bashful and irritated as Rick's grin threatened to split his face clean in two.

But later, when everyone had gone to sleep, she stared into the black and tried to remind herself why she didn't cry anymore. Unable to shake the feeling, whenever her gaze drifted over to where Carol and Daryl were sleeping, that she felt that much more _lonely_ because of it.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Thank you for all the support and enthusiasm on my latest venture! There should be two more chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** I was inspired to this write after I got a delightful little anon prompt in my tumblr inbox that went as follows: _"I have a sudden desire to read a fic pairing Tara and Beth. Know what I mean? Eh? Eh? Do you think you could work your magic?"_ – This is my attempt to do that prompt justice!

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in after the season four finale, during some point in the distant future when Beth has been reunited with the rest of the group and a handful of years have passed. *Contains: adult language, references to PTSD, depression, possible sexual/physical abuse/assault (regarding Beth's ordeal after getting 'kidnapped' in late season four), adult content, mild sexual content, fem-slash, religious references and some vague season four spoilers.

**One for the Money (two for the show)**

_**Chapter Three**_

Tara watched Rosita a lot. It took her a long time and more than a little bit of soul searching to understand how that could possibly irritate her, but it did. She watched her when the woman bent over or when she stretched. She watched when Rosita stripped down to a cut off undershirt on those particularly sweltering days, or when she swaggered around camp wearing a new shirt, sporting a pronounced little wriggle to her step – something clearly meant for Abraham's benefit – only Tara stared all the same.

* * *

A year passed.

She was there for Judith's first steps, for her first word, her first flailing fit that somehow resulted in a sentence. She was there for the look on Rick's face when Judith bounced, making grabby hands as she called him "Da!-Da!" for the first time. She was there when Judith made her first unsteady trek unaided, falling into Daryl's arms as the man swooped in and caught her at the last second, grinning crookedly as he tossed her above his head, the sound of her delighted laughter echoing through the still.

They celebrated each and every milestone. But she saved her smiles for Tara, tossing them over her shoulder, trusting the woman to be near as she released each and every one into the wild. Tara always was and she never failed to smile back.

She found it easier to smile on those days.

* * *

She had to bite her tongue one night when Tara joined the conversation as some of the guys started talking about first loves and missed chances to 'get some' as Eugene called it, just before the world ended. She'd listened, eager and curious at first, only to have it turn sour in her mouth. Forced to listen as Tara went on in length about some camping trip and a girl who was supposed to be the 'love of her life'. Frankly, the way Tara had tossed a handful of pine needles into the fire, looking wistfully at Rosita's retreating back, had been enough to seal the deal for her.

Her stomach twisted violently as a surge of emotions – ones she hardly dared to contemplate – rose quickly to the forefront.

She opened her mouth, a spray of words balancing on the tip of her tongue before she forced herself to swallow them. The backwash reminded her of jealously. Her hands tightened around the dirty dish cloth, feeling the uncharacteristic urge to snap at her, to sneer something about having to dye her hair brown and cut-off her jeans at mid-thigh just to get the woman's attention, before she got a hold of herself.

_What the hell?! _

Where had _that_ come from?

But for the first time in a long time, that little voice in the back of her head was dead quiet.

* * *

They celebrated Christmas two weeks late that year.

Somehow they'd just forgotten.

Carl took it pretty hard.

The party was half hearted and keenly different. More an excuse to get drunk and pig out on soft toffee and the half box of dark chocolate they'd managed to scrounge for the occasion. But it was warm, close – comforting in its own way.

She supposed it had to be enough.

They didn't talk about anything much either, not past holidays, not the family and friends they'd lost since the beginning. She remembered it was different last year, back when they'd come through the winter more or less whole. They'd shared more then. Back when Lori, Daddy, and T-dog were still alive, back when the memories hadn't seemed to hurt so much.

But this year it was different.

No one asked and no one told.

She tried not to think about what Daddy would think.

* * *

The night they lost Sasha and Bob, she set her bedroll beside Tara's. At first she was appalled at her own daring, watching the taut lines of the woman's body tense and release, already laid out and feigning sleep beside her. It made her wonder if she'd gone too far.

But somewhere across camp, Tyreese was crying. His body shaking with terrible, soul-wrenching sobs that sounded so painful – so dry and wrung out, that it made her want to curl into herself, to block her ears and pretend that the sound of someone else's grief didn't make her feel as helpless as she knows they all were.

Any words they could offer him were empty.

She knew that just as much as he.

So they said nothing.

Instead, they sat close and let the man grieve, they let him yell and rage, they let him break his fist against the side of an old brick mill and splinted the wound when he finally slept. They let him stew in his pain, in his fury and coldness. Waiting, patient, for the moment when he broke, when they would sweep in and hold him close – reminding him he was not alone, that they needed him and that losing him would be more than any of them could bear.

She wondered if it would be enough.

So, perhaps, that is why she bit her lip, why instead of pulling away, instead of putting a more respectful distance between them, she inched the thin fabric that much closer. Worrying at the small strip of dirt that separated them until she fell asleep breathing in the smell of sweat and spiced limes.

She woke up the next morning with a face full of wavy brown hair. She woke up to find herself half on Tara's bedroll, hopelessly tangled in both blankets. She woke up to Tara's soft snores and their fingers intertwined under the blankets. She woke up to Tara's warm, soft body curled protectively around hers and for the first time in a long time, she let herself enjoy the closeness.

It wasn't until she was halfway through making breakfast that she realized it'd been the best night's sleep she'd had since the prison. And while she didn't know for sure, she couldn't deny that seeing her reflection without the dark circles _wasn't_ a nice change.

Neither of them said a word about it. But the next night, when she stubbornly set up her bedroll beside her, it was Tara that broached the space between them.

She slept like a baby.

* * *

Tara stared in the mirror for a long time after the bandages came off.

She watched their reflections as a trembling hand hovered over the ugly slash, pink and puffy as only a new scar can be. And it _was_ ugly. It came down from just below her left eye and followed the curve of her jaw line. A souvenir from a group of men who'd decided that four women alone on a supply run would be easy pickings – worth the risk of jumping when their backs were turned.

It was long, thick, ropey pink – the type of scar people had plastic surgery to fall back on. It was the type of scar that would have given you public anxiety, that your parents would have put you in counselling or PTSD therapy while they saved up their nickels and dimes to pay some doctor to take you back to normal.

Only Tara didn't have that luxury.

None of them did.

She shivered. Uncertain of what she was waiting for as she stuck close, knees tucked into her chest, breathing in through her mouth as the one-person tent grew sour with the smell of old sweat and antiseptic. The zing was caustic - acrid as it built up underneath her nose, forcing her duck her chin and hide under her collar to escape the worst of it. It reminded her of the barn burning, of scorched grass and her childhood – _her home_ going up in flames.

She watched a shudder ripple down the woman's back, unable to keep from flashing back to the moment where she'd rounded the corner of the mall they'd been combing through. Her Glock had been up and ready, only she'd frozen, mind going blank at the sight of Tara caught, pinned around the neck and kicking at a man who was easily twice her size.

The man's grin turned nasty, more predatory than anything when he'd focused on her, leaning down to whisper something in Tara's ear that made the woman's expression hiccup - twisting into something she didn't recognize as Michonne yelled at him to drop her.

He'd been missing one of his front teeth. That was all she'd had time to register before Tara suddenly sank her teeth into the curve of the man's arm and _tore._

She bit a chunk out of the man's forearm, fountaining blood and sinew all down her front as he yelled, backhanding her across the face as he dropped her. Stunned, Tara hit the dirt like a deck of folding cards, palms scoring across the loose asphalt like nails on a chalkboard.

The man had screamed like a stuck pig, loud enough to send both Carol and his friends running. In the end they managed to overpower them, taking them down quick before the walkers came. But not before one of the man's friends – the one with a dirty-brown pony tail and a limp - carved a slice down Tara's face.

_Punishment_, he'd called it. _Only fair after all…_

She held her breath, something in her crumbling when the woman's spine stiffened, expression growing hard - _distant _as she met her reflection head on. She hated everything about it as she watched Tara's eyes go from wounded to vacant. She hated the expression. She hated the exaggerated hollows that had taken up residence below her eyes. The tension in her shoulders – _all of it._

She didn't know if it was the right thing to do, if she should just leave and give the woman her space, but she was up and moving before she could stop herself - wrapping her arms around Tara's shoulders and reeling her in – tight but gentle. It was an awkward grip. And just like she knew she would, Tara's spine stiffened, trying to put on a brave front, to reassure _her _even though both of them knew she was inches away from breaking.

"At least my outsides match my insides now," Tara remarked, forcing a laugh she knew was more for her benefit than anything else. The mirror shook as Tara turned away, her voice so hollow, so_ brittle_ that it physically hurt to hear.

And while she didn't quite know what that meant, she knew that her heart had stilled in her chest when she found the mirror, shattered and half-hidden in the weeds beside her tent when they broke camp early the next morning.

It takes a long time for the scar to heal. And when it does, it still comes out ugly.

* * *

She got bold after that, more willing to take risks. She began thinking of ways to be near her, bullying Tara into playing Backgammon, trouncing her at Go-Fish and War, offering to give her hair a trim. _Anything._ It didn't matter anymore.

She refused to let her drift away. Not when they were so close, not after everything they'd been through, everything they'd survived. Tara had been her anchor once, it was only right she return the favor.

For a long time, Tara just humored her, using sarcasm as a shield in the same way she'd once used silence. Any progress she gained was painfully slow and hard won. But she refused to give up. And eventually, after more than a few shouting matches, things slowly started to fall into place.

And if she felt the weight of the other's eyes on them more often than not as the weeks spanned out, well, she pretended not to notice. She had more important things to worry about.

* * *

The next few months were worse.

They ran out of gas on a three hundred mile stretch of dead space. Where there was nothing but an endless line of abandoned cars, a narrow two lane road and a closed-in type of wilderness that felt far more sinister than it should have.

There was fresh blood splattered across the blacktop and the lingering, singed-electrical smell of a recent engine fire. The walkers were fresh. The smell of death still had that backdrop of sweetness to it, something she'd come to attribute to new death, before the rot sets in.

A child's backpack sat neatly atop the hood of a Jeep – the one with fresh scorch marks licked across the hood. When she peeked inside, she found canned food and wild crab-apples that were only a few days past edible. Whoever they'd been, they hadn't missed them by much.

The decision to continue forward on foot was all but made for them. Every car half a mile in both directions was either smashed to pieces or in the same predicament they were – all empty gas tanks and busted water filters.

So they started walking.

She had blisters _on_ _top _of blisters by the time they found a decent place to hole up for the night. It took a week for them to find a car they were able to cram into and by then, everyone's face was host to a pinched, hollow sort of look.

Water was scarce.

Tempers were high.

She gave her food to Judith.

She tried to remember the taste of fresh peaches and cream.

But in the end that only made it worse.

* * *

She kept waiting for things to get better.

But they didn't and eventually she was forced to consider something she hadn't let herself dwell on before. Maybe things _don't_ get better. Maybe things are just bad until they get _worse_.

She couldn't deny that part of her still held out hope for that silver lining. She knew she was setting herself up for disappointment but she couldn't help it. It was her nature to hope. It'd been ingrained in her since she'd been small. She'd grown up with the idea of what goes around, comes around, that the sun will rise to a better sky in the morrow.

Sometimes she tried to think about what Daddy used to say about hard times, but it was getting harder and harder to remember the sound of his voice, even the way his eyes used to light up when he laughed.

Then Judith got sick and everything came to a screeching halt.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be one more chapter, stay tuned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** I was inspired to this write after I got a delightful little anon prompt in my tumblr inbox that went as follows_: "I have a sudden desire to read a fic pairing Tara and Beth. Know what I mean? Eh? Eh? Do you think you could work your magic?"_ – This is my attempt to do that prompt justice!

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in after the season four finale, during some point in the distant future when Beth has been reunited with the rest of the group and a handful of years have passed. *Contains: adult language, references to PTSD, depression, possible sexual/physical abuse/assault (regarding Beth's ordeal after getting 'kidnapped' in late season four), adult content, mild sexual content, respiratory illness – treatment, medical jargon, mentions needles and etc. Fem-slash, religious references, pointed allusions to suicide and some vague season four spoilers.

**One for the Money (two for the show)**

_**Chapter Four**_

"Croup," Tara declared. Her hands were on her hips, listening as Judith wheezed, distressingly thin and weak from her place in Carl's arms - too exhausted to cry as she kicked feebly, restless and radiating heat.

There was a surety in her voice that the others immediately clung to. Herself included. It was enough to make the arguments, which had been going in full swing for the last three hours, trundle to a dead stop. Rick's legs were unsteady as he unfolded himself from the moth-eaten couch. Judith just coughed.

Abraham's forehead wrinkled into a frown, "Croup? But isn't that-"

"Judith has never been vaccinated," Carol reminded quietly, trying to encourage the tot to sip some water, only to have her turn away, fussing and flushed. Her face and forehead hot to the touch.

"Why not whooping cough?" Rosita suggested, cocking her head. "My cousin's twins had it twice growing up. This sounds a lot like it. She can't catch her breath, hell she's been nursing a low grade fever for days," the woman pointed out, running a hand through her hair as she paced around the fireplace.

"It's a bark, not a wheeze," Tara replied, firm and broaching no quarter as Judith's tiny form shook, racked with a series of distressingly violent coughs, deep enough that they reminded her of a science class documentary, something about beached sea lions. She couldn't remember exactly. But the sound was almost dead on.

"How do you know?" Rick asked, exhaustion shining through, staring at Tara like she was that last bit of light shining down the tunnel. "How can you be sure?"

The pause that followed was a tangible thing, choked and near suffocating as everyone's attention switched from Rick to Tara to Judith and then back to Tara again. It felt like watching a tennis match, only the stakes were higher.

The weak sunlight that shone through the window of the house they'd taken refuge in highlighted the silver in Rick's beard, making him look far older than he was as he ran a hand down haggard features. He stooped low, gingerly taking Judith from Carl as her coughs give way to a thin, strangled sort of sob that caused her insides to clench in sympathy. Eugene shifted restlessly in the far corner, mirroring the others as they paced and fiddled.

She could practically_ taste_ the discomfort. The need to do something, _anything,_ was almost overpowering. They weren't used to feeling this helpless. The walkers were one thing, but this? Fighting something you couldn't see?

"My sister, Lilly- she was a nurse," Tara replied, growing in confidence after she broached the initial hurdle – as if saying her sister's name aloud was painful but somehow necessary. She understood the feeling. It was important to remember. It was important to remember that things hadn't always been this way. Important to remember the people they'd lost, regardless of how much it hurt.

"You'd be surprised how many numbnuts didn't immunize their children. Only to come into emergency all butt-hurt because their 'precious darlings' had 'somehow' caught the plague," Tara snarked, snorting dismissively and making liberal use of air quotes as she started digging through her pack for a pen and paper.

"This is what we'll need. Steroids are the best – Dexamethasone or Budesonide. But epinephrine will work in a pinch – bring the whole kit if you can. And oxygen if you can find it. The sooner the better. I'm not going to sugar coat it. But she's going to need at least one of these or-"

"We've got it," Maggie cut in, brusque and to the point as Carl visibly paled; snatching up the piece of paper and duplicating it as Rick smoothed a map across the kitchen table and formed three scouting teams.

The plan was for each group to go in a different direction. Rick's group would go North to a nursing home, Daryl's east to a small walk-in clinic and Michonne's south to the big-box pharmacy they'd passed on their way through town. The idea was that at least one of them might have what they needed and this way they could cover ground faster.

Tara expelled a breath when the last group stomped out the front door, taking pains to lock the deadbolt and screen as Eugene watched Rosita and Abraham's departing backs with clear emotion. Carol held Judith gently, trying to rock her through the next coughing fit as Tara turned on her heel, rubbing her hands together.

"Good, they're gone," she sighed, "Alright, first thing we need to do is boil some water – a lot of it. In fact, we need to keep it going all night, at least until they get here."

Carol's gaze sharpened, the switch enough to draw even Eugene's attention as Judith struggled for breath, shuddering and shaking as Carol tried to find a good position for her to lie in.

"What did you send them to do?" she asked, slightly accusing as Tara started sorting through the linen closet, shoving a stack of dusty cotton cloths into her arms before whirling back towards the kitchen.

"I sent them to get what we need," Tara answered, tossing the words over her shoulder as she followed uncertainly in her wake. She hopped up on the counter to give the woman room to move as she came out of the crawl space carrying a massive fire-blackened kettle.

"But in case they don't find it, we need to be ready," she continued, rolling up her sleeves and shooing Eugene outside to collect kindling.

"Having the medicine would make it easier, better – more of a sure thing. But if they don't, if everywhere is cleared out, I still have a few tricks up my sleeve. I can't guarantee it, but-"

They watched her work, practically having to dodge her as she buzzed around the house - bullying Eugene into compliance as she got the fire up to a boil and sterilized a wash basin for the cotton towels.

She couldn't help but feel remarkably out of her depth, spending the next half hour picking spider webs out of the woman's hair as Tara charged full tilt into a storage shed, back under the crawl space and out into the far reaches of the garage, muttering about space heaters and kerosene. But when they were finally settled and Tara held out her hands for Judith, it was _her_ the woman looked at. _Her._ Not Carol. Not Eugene, not even Judith. _But her._

"Trust me. I know what I'm doing."

So they did.

Though, for her, there was never any doubt.

* * *

By nightfall Judith was too exhausted to cry. Instead she just whimpered, high and reedy. Her little chest struggled to suck in enough air as every cringe-worthy cough caused tears to prick in the corners of her eyes. She grew to hate the sound of Eugene's nervous chatter. Finding herself envious of Carol's calm expression and irritated at herself for feeling so useless.

She couldn't bring herself to hate the sight of Tara's sweaty face, all flushed and humid with the steam. Instead she made a point to memorize every detail. The way Tara's hair curled at the tips, the delicate arch of her brow, the way sweat collected on the ridge of the puckered scar on her cheek, balancing fitfully before falling into empty space.

No one slept that night.

They kept the fire going.

It was the only thing they _could _do.

Carol dealt with the walkers drawn by the sound of Eugene splitting kindling - chunks of loamy pine the owner of the house had left outside the shed. While her and Tara took turns with Judith, keeping her elevated and comfortable as they let the steam do its work. She counted the drops as moisture beaded down the sides of the kettle, hissing and spitting as they met with the hot coals.

Hours passed this way.

It took a while for her to slow down enough to fill them in, but eventually Tara explained what she was up to. She told them about the steam, about home-style remedies and a movie she'd seen once. She told them about the difference it made for Judith to be breathing in the humid air, easing her airway with the steam from the kettle they kept at a steady boil from dusk till dawn.

Neither of them could tell if it was working, but Judith was able to sleep some – fitful but longer than ten minutes at a time. They decided to chalk it up as an improvement.

It was a small victory.

But at the moment it was all they had.

* * *

Daryl's group returned an hour before dawn, empty handed, soaking wet and stinking to high heaven. Daryl muttered something about a swamp and a herd before Rosita shoved an armful of wet wipes and baby Tylenol onto the closest flat surface and stomped up the stairs to the bathroom, peeling off her muddy shirt as she tripped up the stairs.

Rick, Carl and Abraham screeched across the gravel drive just after nine in the morning with an oxygen tank, a mask and about two dozen random vaccines bottles they'd been able to scrounge from the nursing station at the retirement home. They hadn't had time to search anymore before they'd had to run, finding that most of the patients had been left to fend for themselves in the panic and had died in the halls when their ward had been overrun.

Carol triple checked every bottle. _Nothing. _The way Rick's expression crumpled when they realized none of them matched the names on the list was something she hoped she'd never see the like of again.

It was afternoon by the time Michonne, Tyreese and Maggie pulled in. They were blood spattered and driving a souped up old truck rather than the sedan they'd all left in, but when Michonne loped through the front door, her smile was like Christmas morning as she unzipped her bag and pulled out a handful of vials.

_Dexamethasone and Budesonide._

_Two of each._

Her tummy did flip-flops as Tara's expression broke – a confusing mish-mash of joy and relief as she fumbled with the cap on the needle and carefully loaded the first vial. Everyone crowded close. It should have been stifling, choking, but somehow it wasn't. Somehow it ended up being comforting – like an affirmation as Tara gathered Judith to her breast and rolled up her sleeve.

When the needle pricked Judith's pudgy little arm and the plunger sank down, she breathed for the first time in what felt like decades.

* * *

They counted the hours. Counted the number of circuits Rick paced around the room. Counted the number of times Carl fell asleep only to jerk himself awake a few minutes later, guilty. Her eyes were drooping by the time Judith surprised everyone – seven hours later – when her coughs subsided and she fell into the first restful sleep she'd had in days.

The expression on Tara's face was nothing short of the sunrise.

She tried to tell herself that she would ask her about it later, that she would take the plunge and demand more. That she would ask about the way Tara's hand ended up resting on her hip when they finally collapsed into their bedrolls that afternoon. About the way it was getting harder and harder to untangle herself come morning, not just because they couldn't seem to sleep separately anymore, but more because she didn't_ want_ to.

She wanted to snuggle back into the pillows and have a good old fashioned lie in. She wanted to dig her face into the curve of Tara's neck and pretend that her mess of wavy brown _wasn't_ trying to tickle its way up her nose. She wanted this – _her _and not to regret it in the morning. She wanted to be greedy. She wanted to take that last step and risk nothing – _risk everything_ – and get her happy ending. She wanted-

But when she woke up the next morning and the opportunity to do just that passed her by - just like always, she figured that even now, despite how much she wanted – despite how _desperately _she needed to do exactly that – she probably never would.

She wasn't like Maggie. Like Michonne and Rick and the others.

She'd never been very good at being brave.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Okay, I lied; there will be one more chapter. It got way too long and I had to break it up somehow. So, the final chapter will be up sometime next week!

**Reference #1:** Many cases of croup have been prevented by immunization for influenza and diphtheria. At one time, croup was referred to a diphtherial disease, but with vaccination, diphtheria is now rare in the developed world. It was historically common in areas where sanitation was poor. Croup can be easily cured by a number of methods, including the use of steroids mentioned in the text of this story above. (sourced from wiki)


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** I was inspired to this write after I got a delightful little anon prompt in my tumblr inbox that went as follows: "I have a sudden desire to read a fic pairing Tara and Beth. Know what I mean? Eh? Eh? Do you think you could work your magic?" – This is my attempt to do that prompt justice!

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in after the season four finale, during some point in the distant future when Beth has been reunited with the rest of the group and a handful of years have passed. *Contains: adult language, references to PTSD, depression, possible sexual/physical abuse/assault (regarding Beth's ordeal after getting 'kidnapped' in late season four), adult content, mild sexual content, respiratory illness – treatment, mentions needles and etc, fem-slash, blood, religious references, pointed allusions to suicide and some vague season four spoilers.

**One for the Money (two for the show)**

_**Chapter Five**_

The weather was humid and mild, perpetually overcast in a way that reminded her of the calm before a storm. But instead of concentrating on the threatening undertones, she ignored the skyline completely. Choosing to listen as Judith's coughs gradually lessened, subsiding into gentle little rasps, smiling hugely when Glenn wriggled his fingers at her one morning, delighting them all with her first happy giggle in days.

The decision to stay put was surprisingly unanimous. They knew it wouldn't last, so they milked it for all it was worth, letting Judith recover as they replenished their supplies and searched for gas, working on making the small farm house a bit more defendable. No one seemed to be in a hurry to move on and honestly, she was glad for the break.

She'd forgotten what it was like, being on the road all the time. It wore you down; everything about you stretches, thinned down to the breaking point. The winter after they'd lost the farm had taught her a lot about her limits, her strengths. But still, she knew they couldn't go on like this forever.

She figured that was why no one talked about the prison.

Remembering what they'd all lost there still hurt too much.

Peace of mind was a tricky thing to piece back together.

At first she was grateful, grateful for the roof over their heads and the marvel of waking up and going to bed in the same place the longer their luck stretched out. She marveled at sharing a narrow double bed and the way Tara star-fished across the coverlet whenever she was given half a chance. She almost got used to the sight of clothes hanging on the line and the smell of bran and granola flat bread wafting from the kitchen.

Still, there was a down side. The normalcy gave her _way_ too much time to think.

Because as each day passed she couldn't help but feel like all she was doing was making a whole lot of excuses.

* * *

Two weeks after Judith recovered, Tyreese went missing.

In retrospect they should have seen in coming. The morning after was understated, quiet – _planned_. They'd gone to sleep one night, secure in the knowledge that Tyreese was sitting out on the front porch, shot gun in his lap and nursing a mug of weak tea, only to wake up the next morning to find him gone.

_Just gone._

Nothing was missing. Not his bedroll or his pack. He'd left with only the clothes on his back and his hammer – leaving the gun leaning on the porch railing, like he'd snuck off to the bushes to do his business and never came back. From what they could tell, it happened sometime between his turn on watch and first light.

Rick and Daryl were adamant that he must have seen something, gotten lost - anything that would explain why a man would just up and leave without warning, without a shout for help or any hint of a plan. He didn't even take a spare set of clothes. Her stomach felt like a hollow void, a churning mass of air bubbles and discomfort as the man's trail ran cold and the sound of raised voices – angry, hurt and afraid – echoed down the front hall.

She tried to hold out hope, to think positively and try to find the good in everything. Just like Daddy had told her. But by nightfall, she couldn't help but think that hope – like patience – was running noticeably thin.

She wanted to believe it'd been an accident. A series of unfortunate events that would eventually conclude in Tyreese limping back home any minute, exhausted and hungry, a sheepish grin tugging at the corners of his lips when they piled out the door to greet him. But after another day and a half of searching, she couldn't help but catch Carol's gaze from across the fire. And as Abraham and Daryl spent the next hour arguing about what direction to search come sunrise, she figured the woman was struggling with the exact same thoughts she was.

_Doubt._

Doubt that Tyreese was alive.

Doubt that he'd ever wanted to be found.

Doubt that this hadn't been a long time coming.

Doubt that-

_Somehow she just knew. _

In a fit of boldness, she opened her mouth. Tongue tracing a line across her lower lip, ready to say as much as the voices around the fire rose and fell – the inflections underneath growing darker by the minute. But Carol just shook her head, a shallow but firm negative from the other side of the fire. She was surprised how difficult it was to swallow them.

She wondered if that was what Andrea had felt when she'd-

Instead, she unfolded herself from her seat against the hearth and joined Tara at the table, nudging her with her hip until they were sharing a chair. She watched her wrestle with a crossword until the angry voices eventually petered out and someone – Rosita maybe – yawned. A signal to all that they had an early wake up and a lot of ground to cover in the morning.

She nibbled on the inside of her cheek as Rick shuffled past, rubbing idle circles around his temples like he was trying to stave off a headache. She held her breath as she watched him, uncertain of where the sudden tension had come from. He shuddered, the action minute and close as he leaned down and thumbed the worn out strap of Tyreese's pack.

Her cheeks heated. Suddenly glad she hadn't spoken when she'd had the opportunity as she forced her eyes away. It felt like she'd walked in on something private. Something she wasn't supposed to see. She flinched, more internal than anything when he shored himself against the table leg, leaning in, unsteady as the others streamed out of the room, making tracks for their bedrolls.

It was probably for the best. It wasn't her place after all. Let them hope it'd been an accident. Let them believe he was still out there somewhere, trying to make his way back to them. Let them have at least that much. After all, who was she to say otherwise?

* * *

"_The pain doesn't go away…you just make room for it…"_

But what if you couldn't? What if you couldn't make sense of it? Live with it? What if you didn't want to?

She supposed Tyreese had already figured out the answer.

* * *

Two days later a new herd crossed the freeway and started spreading out across the grasslands. They couldn't put off moving on any longer. But still, they waited, packed up and impatient as Rick slapped paint across the side of a billboard at the end of the driveway that led up to the farmhouse.

There was Tyreese's name, an arrow pointing in the direction they'd gone and the hope that he'd follow them when he found it. No one mentioned the billboard again. Not even Rick. No one talked about the way they'd left his pack behind, untouched, propped up on the kitchen counter beside a small pile of canned food. No one seemed to have the courage to put their thoughts into voice when the days passed and the hope on Rick's face gradually grew dimmer and dimmer.

She hoped he was at peace – wherever he was.

She hoped they all were.

* * *

"She likes you. You know that, right?" Michonne commented one night around the fire.

"She likes Rosita," she replied automatically, caught so off guard by the directness that she didn't even try to deny it. Still, she was sure the woman had noticed the way her eyes had skirted from the cast iron pan she was seasoning to where Tara was sitting, alternating between making funny faces at Judith and trouncing Eugene and Glenn at Poker.

They were alone but she kept her voice low, trying to ignore the slight tremor as Michonne fixed her with that patented thousand yard stare from clear across the fire.

"She likes to _look_ at Rosita. She likes you. There's a difference," Michonne pointed out, shrugging her shoulders like she was trying to rid herself of a troublesome thought as they met eyes across the flames.

She managed not to squirm in place but it was a near thing.

She was grateful when the woman eventually took pity on her and dropped it. But the damage had already been done. Because all the effort she'd put into ignoring it, hiding from it, churning out excuse after excuse about why they _shouldn't _– why they _couldn't,_ was rendered completely and utterly moot.

She sighed, something in her deflating as her posture slumped in defeat. _Damnit. _She'd tried so hard. She'd looked the other way. She'd tried to tell herself that it was better this way, that she didn't need-

She looked up just in time for Tara to catch her eye. Losing track of her spiraling thoughts when the woman flashed her a happy smile and a thumbs up as Eugene and Glenn tossed down their cards, groaning. And while the scar on her cheek often turned every other smile into a grimace, she couldn't help but treasure it all the same.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Two more chapters and we are wrapping this up. For real-reals this time! What can I say, this fic just really wants to stretch it's wings and fly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** I was inspired to this write after I got a delightful little anon prompt in my tumblr inbox that went as follows: "I have a sudden desire to read a fic pairing Tara and Beth. Know what I mean? Eh? Eh? Do you think you could work your magic?" – This is my attempt to do that prompt justice!

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in after the season four finale, during some point in the distant future when Beth has been reunited with the rest of the group and a handful of years have passed. *Contains: adult language, references to PTSD, depression, possible sexual/physical abuse/assault (regarding Beth's ordeal after getting 'kidnapped' in late season four), adult content, mild sexual content, respiratory illness – treatment, mentions needles and etc, fem-slash, blood, religious references, pointed allusions to suicide and some vague season four spoilers.

**One for the Money (two for the show)**

_**Chapter Six**_

She wasn't sure how it'd happened. Maybe they'd finally let the emotions they'd been riding since they'd lost Tyreese get to them. Maybe they'd just gotten sloppy. At the end of the day, it probably didn't matter. All that did was that they'd been together, low on gas and just desperate enough to chance loading up on supplies from the back of a sprawling, suburban mall when someone – maybe Abraham, maybe Maggie – opened the wrong door.

They hadn't been able to hold the line. There'd been too many of them. Rick, Abraham and Daryl had tried, slamming up against the doors as a half dozen arms shot through the gap, bone-dry and grabby. But it was no use. Walkers had poured through the door like a black tide, the smell of old death and decay was so strong she nearly keeled over, eyes watering as her fingers slammed down on the trigger – once – twice – again.

A woman in a yellow dress.

An old man without shoes.

A teenager, long legs and gawky, in an employee uniform, a rosary wrapped loosely around his wrist.

A thing – a man - hollowed out and paunchy with his last meal stumbled forward, reaching, bloody and stinking as it slipped through the doors. A hail of bullets peppered through its torn suit and wispy trousers. It fell with its arms outstretched, milky-eyes fixed on her face as Tara's knife sunk deep through the back of its skull.

There was blood trickling down her face - stinking and pitch-black. She gagged.

She was out of bullets.

Time skipped forward when Rick yelled. Something about heading for the vehicles, but she lost the rest as the blare of Shane's old Mossberg, now clutched in Rosita's blood streaked hands, exploded just beside her left ear. She shook her head, ears ringing. It felt like someone had pushed the fast forward button as arms curled around her waist, catching underneath her armpit as someone, Tara maybe, dragged her away.

They were running, ducking, only a few meters from the southernmost exit when the sliding doors that led into the main supermarket shattered from the inside. The world devolved into a tone-deaf swan song as she stumbled backwards, knees hitting the filthy tile as vibrations coursed up her trembling arms.

There were walkers everywhere.

The others scattered.

_She couldn't-_

She lost Tara in the crush. Getting separated in the panic as the sound of gunshots and screams drew every walker within a half a mile. She lost sight of the others, catching a glimpse of Tara leaping on top of a center aisle display, buck knife glinting before she stuck her multi-tool between the rubber lips of an automatic door and tumbled inside.

She screamed, kicking out as a hand, vice-iron and snarling, firmed around her boot, twisting and yanking her backwards. One walker became two, three, four, before she lost count and wrenched herself away. Using the precious seconds afforded to her as they squirmed through the gap in the doors, fighting for place as all four tried to force their way through at the same time.

She dragged herself away and let the darkness swallow her.

* * *

She couldn't tell how much time had passed, all she knew was that she was playing stranger in the dark – that she was outnumbered - cut off from the exit as the walkers spread out, haunting the dark aisles of the clothing outlet she'd taken refuge in.

She kept her knife up, paranoid it would reflect the light that shone through the sky-lights, but too vulnerable not to chance it. She bit back a hiss of pain, ankle throbbing from where the walker had twisted it. She hadn't heard anything over the silence in what seemed like forever.

_What was she doing to do? How was she going to get back to the others?_

A walker loomed, slavering and excited from the next aisle over, head tilted like a dog catching a scent. Out of options, she dove under the gap in a changing stall and held her breath. The walker's gait was uneven as it stumbled, knocking over a rack of neon-green leggings as it wheeled around – confused.

She climbed on top of the bench and pulled her knees to her chest, trying to school her breathing as the footsteps – _thud-rasp-thud-rasp_- drew closer. Her grip was sweaty as her fingers firmed around the handle of her knife.

_Please, just go away. Please. _

She wasn't sure why but when the walker paused, coming up short just outside the stall, she looked up. Eyes catching on loose ceiling tile just out of her reach. She followed the dips and curves of the heating duct that traveled the length of the ceiling before disappearing into the next room.

_Did it span the entire length of the mall?_

_If she could brace herself on the coat hangers maybe she could-_

A snarl and a rattle pierced through the quiet, startling her as the walker pressed up against the changing room door, teeth gnashing through the gap between lacquered wood and the crappy sliding lock as it caught sight of her. _It wouldn't be long now._

She shivered, sheathing her knife as she reached up and tested the give of the coat hanger screwed into the wall beside the mirror. She bit her lip. _It'd be close. _It had to hold. The alternative was too terrible to think about.

There were clothes still hanging from the rack above her. She ripped them down. A pretty, coral pink pullover covered in a fine layer of dust fluttered to the floor, pooling around her ankles as she tossed the hanger down with it.

_After all, what did she really have to lose?_

* * *

By the time she'd inched her way along the length of the department store, checking on her progress every now and again through the slated vents bolted into the steel-work. Her sweat was turning the thick layer of dust that lined the ventilation duct into a gross layer of muck that slicked across her palms.

She squeezed her eyes shut as the darkness seemed to close in. _Focus_. The thin beam of her flashlight only seemed to make it worse, warping the metal sides until the phantom sensation of getting buried alive morphed from an intrusive thought to a distinct possibility.

_What if she got stuck up here? What if the piping gave way? What if she fell? What if-_

She froze – finding herself unable to move as a sudden surge of panic gripped her. Exhausted, frightened, frustrated tears welled up. She couldn't hear the others. Had they made it out? Where they waiting for her? Or had they-

_Breathe. _

She forced herself to move, to wipe her sweaty face in the crook of her arm and continue up the steep incline as the venting arrowed up. She struggled to keep from sliding back, digging her fingers deep into every crevice, every bend in the metal walls as she propelled herself forward. The venting groaned, popping and warping as she started to pick up the pace, determined now.

_You can do this._

The thin beam of her flashlight lit the way as she fumbled towards the next grate. She peered down, finding herself directly above the main walkway, spying dusty couches and overflowing trash bins as close to a hundred walkers milled aimlessly in the mezzanine below.

_She was up in the ceiling,_ she realized. She looked around, uncertain. Her breath rattled through the grate, exaggerated and tinny in the absence of any other sound. _Where were they? Were they hiding? Had they managed to make it out?_

She blinked, momentarily distracted when she realized that from this height, if she didn't look too closely, it might have even looked normal - like any other mall on a Saturday afternoon. There had been a big mega-mall about an hour and a half from home, she remembered always begging and pleading her Mum – even Daddy when he wasn't out and about - to take her every other weekend or so.

Maggie had always laughed during their phone calls while she away at her first year of college. _'Spoiled brat,'_ she teased. Shawn had always agreed, butting in and picking up the line from downstairs, making rude noises with the door stopper until all three of them were a mess from laughing.

She shook the thought away, frustrated with herself when she realized that she couldn't remember the last thing she'd done for fun, not with Jimmy or even her girlfriends before the world had pulled itself apart at the seams.

_How could she forget something like that? How-_

Her teeth ground together – the precursor to a headache as she pushed the thoughts away.

_Find the others. What if they're hurt? They need you._

* * *

She tried to keep her breathing deep and even as the heating duct started angling downwards. It was gradual, thankfully, but even then the incline sent her slipping and sliding whenever she tried to navigate around a corner. _God, how long had she been up here? An hour? Two?_

She winced when the skeleton of a dead rat, bone dry and beyond decayed, crunched under the butt of her flashlight. The sound echoed, losing its pitch but keeping its staying power as the metal sides of the duct amplified the sound. There was just no room to maneuver anymore.

She shivered as a howl of wind whipped up from the nearest grate. Emboldened, thinking that perhaps she was nearing some sort of exit, she squirmed towards it. She shoved the head of the flashlight through the vents, trying to peer into the darkness as the beam caught on dusty shelves and cardboard boxes.

_Some sort of warehouse, maybe?_

She clicked her tongue, deliberate and loud in the hush. But nothing happened; there was no sound of walkers, of anything really. She squinted, trying to make out the details of the room but the thin beam just wasn't bright enough.

_Still, a warehouse was good, right? _If she remembered the layout of the mall, most of the big-box stores were situated on the far corners of the building. If this was one of the warehouses, that probably meant she was near at least one corner of the mall. Close enough to chance trying to make a run for the outside at least.

She left trails in the dust, winding her way through the pipes that intersected with the duct, counting the grates as they passed - _1, 2, 3, 4, 5 _– each one just as dark as the last. _It couldn't be that far now. Surely-_

She squeezed around a curve in the piping and hissed, slicing her arm on the exposed edge. She backed herself into a corner, regretting the sudden flinch when the duct groaned – popping back into shape as she huddled into the curve of the u–bend.

But if anything, the warm slick of blood was familiar, grounding in a terrible sort of way. The dimming beam from her flashlight gave the blood droplets a blinding sheen as they _plink-plink-plinked_ across the bottom of the vent. She should turn it off, she knew. Conserve the light until she reached a promising looking grate. But somehow she couldn't bear to even think about it.

_Up here, trapped in the dark? _She'd rather drain it dry.

Her fingers skittered, slip-sliding in the dusty red as the trickle from the wound became a sluggish stream, halting her progress.

_Damn!_

It was only when she was forced to stop and bandage it, wrapping it the best she could with a bit of ripped hem from her shirt, that she heard it. A stuttered, overwhelmed sounding _"…fuck me…" _from the grate ahead.

The recognition was immediate – blinding -_ perfect_.

_Tara!_

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – One more chapter and I swear to crud this will be over. It got away from me in a way I really didn't expect!


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** I was inspired to this write after I got a delightful little anon prompt in my tumblr inbox that went as follows: "I have a sudden desire to read a fic pairing Tara and Beth. Know what I mean? Eh? Eh? Do you think you could work your magic?" – This is my attempt to do that prompt justice!

**Warnings:** This story is meant to fit in after the season four finale, during some point in the distant future when Beth has been reunited with the rest of the group and a handful of years have passed. *Contains: adult language, references to PTSD, depression, possible sexual/physical abuse/assault (regarding Beth's ordeal after getting 'kidnapped' in late season four), adult content, mild sexual content, respiratory illness – treatment, mentions needles and etc, fem-slash, blood, religious references, pointed allusions to suicide and some vague season four spoilers.

**One for the Money (two for the show)**

_**Chapter Seven**_

"I won't fit." Tara pointed out, standing up on her tippy-toes as she eyed the vent with clear distrust.

She scrunched her nose. She was right, obviously, she could barely fit herself. She took a deep breath and rested her head on the edge of the vent, resisting the urge to drum her feet as she tried to think. _They had to be close to some sort of exit. Had to be!_

She hadn't been able to believe it when she peered through the slats of the vent and found Tara stuffed in a supply closet on the opposite end of the warehouse. She'd barely been able to make her out in the gloom, ignoring the hot throb of her arm, but what little she could see – her dark hair slick with a spray of blood, right cheek shining, promising a fresh bruise come morning – was enough. She was whole - _safe_.

The relief – relief that she'd made it, that she wasn't alone - had been damn near crippling.

Tara managed to unscrew the grate with her multi-tool, and within a matter of minutes she was straining to brush fingers with the woman below. Getting the low-down in hushed whispers as the restless shuffling of walkers could be heard just outside the closet door.

She'd been cut off, out of bullets, just a few corridors shy of the store front – Maggie, Rick, Carl and Glenn ahead of her – when a group of walkers had busted through the safety glass and forced her to backtrack. There had been too many of them, Rick and the others hadn't had any other choice but to run, hoping she'd be able to hole up somewhere until it was safe to try a rescue.

She bit down on a dry cough, dust tickling the back of her throat as she listened to Tara talk, hearing the odd word, like 'hunker down' or 'game plan' before she forced herself to pay attention. _They weren't out of the woods yet._

"You go on ahead, take my screwdriver and find a safe grate, somewhere near the exit where there's no walkers and make a run for it. Find Rick and the others, they won't have gone far, maybe-"

But she wasn't listening – in fact, leaving was the last thing on her mind. She knew what Tara was trying to do, and sweet as she found it, she wasn't having any it. She pulled her knees up, kicking a bit as she eased herself out of the grate feet first, waiting until her arms were trembling with the strain.

"Hey, wait, what are you do-"

She dropped down, catching the back of Tara's heels with her boot. She would have stumbled into the line of mops hung up on the wall if Tara's arms hadn't curled around her waist, pulling her in until they were flush together.

"What are you doing?" Tara hissed, voice barely above a whisper as her palms settled across her hips, slung low and lingering as her grip tightened a fraction.

"I'm not leaving," she returned, the 'not leaving_ you' _was silent. Even now she couldn't bring herself to say it, too afraid that she'd choke on it as Tara expelled a breath that raised the little hairs on the back of her neck. Unable to stop thinking that if she moved just an inch to her right she'd be able to-

"Two people are better odds than one," she insisted, fighting the urge to pant as a strange sort of awareness prickled down her spine – fledgling and new. Because Tara was right there, inches away and all but plastered across her back and she wasn't moving away.

"We can do this. I know you can-"

She hesitated, losing her train of thought when Tara moved, thighs rubbing up against her ass, accidental – maybe – before the woman made to speak. She cut her off before she could start, desperate to get that much out before one of the walkers on the other side of the door rattled the handle.

Her breath caught in her throat. Behind her, she swore Tara stopped breathing.

_The door didn't have a lock._

* * *

They waited in silence for a few heart stopping seconds, waiting for the knob to turn. They waited for the tumbler to unclick, the door to swing open. _Anything. _Only nothing happened. The walker moved on, uninterested.

They sagged against one another, their relief a palpable living thing that shuddered and quaked just underneath their skin.

"We wait for some to leave before we make our break. It's together or nothing," she whispered, going for reassuring only to fail somewhere in the follow through. The words sounded angry, committed – and while the first one confused her, the second one seemed only natural.

"We'll figure this out."

For a long moment Tara didn't say anything, but when she did, giving her a shallow nod before straightening, she didn't miss the way the action caused her to nose right up into the curve of her collarbone. Close and sweet as their breathing evened out, watching the shadows of the walkers warp and shift through the slats in the closet door.

"This isn't a good idea," Tara replied finally, thumbs tangling in her belt loops as they tried to navigate the close dark together. Trying and failing to separate as the stack of mops behind them shifted dangerously. Truthfully, neither one of them seemed to be trying too hard.

"Shut up," she sighed, forcing the woman to take the majority of her weight as she bent down and peered through the slats, trying to figure out just how many walkers they were dealing with as Tara bristled behind her – indignant but with remarkably little heat.

"_You_ shut up."

The stalemate felt ridiculously close to full out laughter. Like it was euphoria rather than fear that was tugging at the corners of her lips, threatening to pull a laugh from deep in her throat as Tara tucked her head into her chin, lips brushing across the arc of her throat as she pressed a smile into her skin.

And in that moment she was forced to consider what she wouldn't give to keep it there.

* * *

"Well, now what?" Tara huffed only a smidge on the snippy side as their hips bumped, grinding in the close space. Heat thrummed in the pit of her belly. It was an unexpected sort of sweetness, something that demanded she seek it out and tease every last tendril to its limit and hunt it back to its source. Something she was sure would make her sing so sweetly if only she could-

"You got us into this mess. Do you even have a plan other than sitting here and-"

She'd like to be able to say that she'd thought about it before she did it. That she'd carefully sussed out exactly what she wanted to do and when, that she had a plan for the here, the now, the five minutes from now, five years and so on.

"Yo, earth to Beth? Maybe we can-"

As it was, it just kinda…_happened_.

"Dude, don't think I won't shove your ass back up there, because I will and-_mmmph!_"

She figured it was pretty safe to say that _neither_ of them were expecting it when she got up on her tippy-toes and shut Tara up with a desperate, sloppy and completely unrepentant little kiss. Overriding words in favor of a completely different form of communication as Tara spluttered wetly against her lips.

And frankly? She _reveled_ in the quiet.

* * *

_Soft._ That was what registered first.

Tara was a mess of soft curves, soft lips all wrapped up in miles of smooth skin that glided – all but electric – against hers. It was perfect and rushed and awkward and from start to finish, she couldn't get enough of it.

_She should have done this ages ago._

It took her a moment to realize that she was whispering, murmuring wordless hums and pleads for more between kisses as Tara slid a knee between her legs, hiking her up so she could grind down – nearly crying out from the delicious burst of friction.

_Christ, she wanted-_

She shuddered, pleasure burning high and bright on the inside of her skin. Grinning into the woman's lips when she realized that their fingers were tangled, gripped tight all the way down to the webs and neither of them appeared to have any intention of ever letting go.

It'd been a long time since _anything _had felt this good. She'd almost forgotten it could be like this – so good, pure and right. Because it _was _right, she knew that now. Just like she knew that getting to this point, to the moment where their lips met and rational thought fled, had been nothing more than a slow trot to the finish line – an inevitable progression of moments she'd fought off right down to the very last pitch.

It was still a risk, something she knew the world would probably rub her nose in later. But she was done with regrets. Done with only half living. She'd said it once before and she'd say it again. _When you care about people, gettin' hurt is part of the package. _The risk was give and take. You couldn't have one without the other.

Besides, Tara was worth it.

At the end of the day she figured that had to be the difference.

* * *

She nipped at the woman's lips - in thanks or maybe retaliation - before she pushed her against the door. Her pulse was thrumming, resounding between her ears like a second heart beat, as she buried her free hand knuckle deep in the woman's hair and brought her down to trail sloppy kisses across the curve of the woman's ruined cheek.

Tara tasted like expelled shot and exposed metal. Like the salt-tang of old sweat and sun-warmed skin.

She panted, heat rolling off her in waves as the tiny closet grew warm and stifling. Now that she had her, she barely knew what she wanted to do first. Finding the decision between choosing to follow the jut of a chin down the length of her neck or exploring the curve of her shoulder blade to be a truly insurmountable choice. Suddenly struck by the realization that this was actually happening, that she could actually have this, that Tara wanted her to-

She didn't over think it or second guess herself, she just – well – _let go_.

Their lips were spit-slick and puffy-red by the time they were forced to pull away for air. She inhaled, determined to make it last. Coasting along on a high ranging from bonelessly warm to euphoric, she was forced to catch herself, nearly overbalancing before her hands found some piping above their heads – holding on for dear life as Tara slumped back against the door, breathing hard.

Tara just blinked. The expression on the woman's face enough to make her choke on a laugh before the woman masked it, nose scrunching as if she sensed she was being made fun of. She cocked her head, considering. Still, sloe-eyed and panicked made for an interesting combination as the group of walkers paused, restless and confused as they tried to figure out where their prey had gone.

"You have the shittiest timing, you know that?!" Tara hissed, panting between kisses.

And while she had no idea what she was doing, hands fluttering from the jut of the woman's hips to thumbing the curve of her unscarred cheek, she figured out pretty quickly that she really didn't care when Tara managed to yank her shirt clear off.

Though, she couldn't deny the spark of curiosity and wonderment when Tara cursed and fumbled with her bra clasp, thumbs brushing against the hard peaks of her nipples through the fabric. But pretty soon the woman's lips closed around her nipple, all teasing suction and just the hint of teeth, and everything else suddenly become singularly unimportant.

The closet smelled like mothballs, ammonia and old rot. And she surprised herself by wishing, however fleetingly, that they could stay in there forever. But before she could even think about replying, Tara wriggled her hand down the front of her jeans and not five minutes later she had to bite down on the spread of Tara's hand to keep from screaming.

* * *

It was sometime later, after they'd managed to escape from the mall and reunite with the others, that they finally had the conversation they should have had _months _ago.

"Well, what was I supposed to think!?" Tara trumpeted, indignant between kisses as she let herself get backed into a corner – both physically and metaphorically - as her fingers tangled in the older woman's belt loops.

"Maggie said you had a boyfriend. _Boyfriends!_ As in plural!"

"Never assume, _ask_," she stated primly, ruining the image of the perfect southern lady striking an air when she darted down, stealing a kiss that tugged at the pouting jut of the woman's lower lip before teeth, hands and tongue moved on to their next target.

"Oh yeah, who?" Tara shot back, surprisingly lucid for someone who was in the process of getting kissed silly as she aimed to give her behind a swat, missing by a mile as she danced out of the older woman's reach.

"Mama bear Maggie? Our fearless leader? Who, not so coincidentally, is still rocking his 'grief' beard?! Or _you?_ The pretty preacher's daughter from down the fuckin' lane!? Jesus shit, I'm already going to hell, no need to make it official!"

She could feel her flesh melting like butter, senses hazy with the pleasure of it as the feeling centered – radiating out from the spot where her skin opened to take her in, riding the gentle press of the woman's finger as it worked its way inside her.

There was a warmth extending across her chest, a liquid heat rushing over her limbs, burning where Tara's mouth opened above hers, lips slick and pulling, chasing after every breath she exhaled as the finger slipped out and became two. Pressing more and more intently until she had to tear her mouth away and bite down her lower lip to keep herself from _keening_.

Her whimper was thick, clotted and high strung as Tara tumbled her over, spreading her thighs and licking a messy stripe down the length of her. She laved her lower lips with long, slow licks designed to frustrate rather than please. Her hands scrambled in the blankets, tearing up bits of fluff and stuffing as she struggled not to make a sound.

Her clit was a high, sparking bundle of pleasure and pain and she'd do almost _anything _if Tara would just-

_Oh god, please._

It wasn't until Tara chuckled and did exactly that, that she realized she must have said it out loud.

* * *

If she regretted anything, it was that it was over too quickly.

Luckily for her, Tara was more than willing to display the benefits of previous experience and happily put her through the paces. She sat funny for the next two days and laughed more than she swore she had in years.

Life stayed unexpectedly good for a long time after that.

* * *

When she looked back on it, Jimmy had always reminded her of harvest season. Of sun warmed peaches ready to pick, all fuzzy skin and soft spots from where the fruit had brushed up against the branches. He reminded her of new growth trees and saplings on the rise, of adolescent branches reaching unsteadily towards the sun.

Zach reminded her of winter, of drooping evergreens salted with a skiff of fresh snow - the first of the season. He was the dew freezing into pearl-drops across broad leaves just after dawn, an unexpected, but not unwelcome change in the season.

But Tara? Tara was the spring. She was new life starting again. She was the smell of freshly mown grass and damp soil. She was a clean slate, a chance to start over. She was the opportunity to remake what had been wrought and create something new - something _better_ - in its place.

Part of her, the small blackened bit that still held on to the way things used to be, hated the uncertainty. That she couldn't map it out in the back of her head, and plan for things to be like they were today, a week from now, a month, a year. But that was the iffy part about Spring – you didn't know whether it was going to rain or shine. Only that sooner or later, it was bound to do both.

If she was continuing with the metaphor she couldn't deny that Tara fit it – hook, line, and sinker.

So perhaps that's what they'd do. They'd take a leaf out of Mother Nature's book and try just living for a change. Not surviving. Not 'just getting by,' but _living_. And while experience told her otherwise, she found herself willing to risk it. Because whether it meant only two morning lie-ins or two-hundred, she knew, deep down, what they had was worth it.

She figured that if anything, Daddy would have been proud of her for that.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete. Thank you for all your support and enthusiasm. This pairing definitely has that 'new car' smell, so it was a roll of the dice for me to see how it turned out! Thank you for making it a memorable one!


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